


Can we always be this close? (forever and ever)

by IneffableDoll



Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, First Kiss, Fluff, Hugs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Romantic Fluff, Squint and you'll miss it, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), rating is for language as usual, sweet n soft man-shaped beings, very very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: He wanted to hold the angel’s hand.Crowley groaned again, running his fingers sharply over his face, almost enough to draw blood. With Hell out of the picture, he didn’t care too much about being demonic anymore, but still. That was just sappy, bleeding-heart crap. He was not a romantic. Of course, not.“Lies, lies,” his head whispered.-----OR: Aziraphale and Crowley struggle to redefine their relationship when emotions are lain bare after the Ritz. After 6000 years of distance, Crowley doesn’t know how to proceed, or how to ask for what he wants. And since they’re both very stupid, it’s not so natural as romantics (like Crowley) might hope.(But they get there.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714558
Comments: 22
Kudos: 300
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Can we always be this close? (forever and ever)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Taylor Swift’s “Lover.” I started this about two months ago, got 300 words in, then left it to collect dust until the remaining 3,500ish realized it was their cue. And now this exists!

The words came naturally, in the moment. Decently inebriated, Armageddon thwarted, Heaven and Hell off their backs. Nothing to hold them back anymore, so, Crowley said it. Put it all on the line.

They’d both known, maybe even since the beginning. Their feelings were obvious to anyone who thought to look for them – or just looked at them in general. And, fuck, Aziraphale was an angel made of pure love - there’s no way he wasn’t going to know why that sense of love swelled every time Crowley looked his way.

They’d both known, but millennia, century after another, they danced around it, knowing they could never be more than enemies. They stole what friendship they could in shadows - the Arrangement, for one, was the main thing. Crowley never said it, but they both knew it was a promise to each other, as close to marriage vows as supernatural entities could get.

To always love from a distance. Look after each other.

But they never said it. Obviously. Even in the darkest London alleyways when no one would hear or see them, they did not touch. And they did not say it.

Could never say it.

But everything had changed. They were free. On their own side, as he’s said before.

So, after a dinner at the Ritz and a shared bottle at the bookshop, conversation had flowed freely, comfortably, and they seemed equally content to ignore the events of the day – of the past eleven years, really – and just enjoy the company. No pressures, no looking over their shoulders.

And then he’d realized what that meant. It meant there was no reason to hold back. So, in a lull of silence, he simply looked up and said it.

“I love you.”

Aziraphale froze mid-sip and very slowly placed his glass down. “You can’t say that, Crowley.”

“Why not? Heaven and Hell can’t hurt you – us – anymore. I’ll damn well say it if I want to.” His face softened. “And... well, I want to. So. Yeah.”

The tension in the room was palpable and far from romantic. Just about anything but.

“I... well. I love you too, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered into his glass before taking a deep swig. “But…what does that mean for us? What...I mean. What’s going to change?”

“I guess…anything we want,” Crowley replied stiffly. This wasn’t going at all how he’d imagined it – something that happened with great frequency and increasing dramatics.

“I don’t want things to change between us,” Aziraphale said slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I want us to just be like this. Companionable, going out to places, being together. No excuses, no hiding.”

“Then that’s what we do,” Crowley replied simply.

Aziraphale eyed him almost suspiciously. “Is there nothing else that you want?”

Crowley shrugged, noncommittal. There was no way he was going to voice his wants, not now, after what Aziraphale had said. His wants did, in fact, involve _change_. “I’m cool with whatever. I just want to, you know, all the things you said. Be around you.”

Aziraphale smiled then. “Lovely.”

And that was that.

He’d said it, and he thought everything would change, but nothing did.

Later, Crowley laid awake in his bed, back at the Mayfair flat, staring at the ceiling like the Almighty might’ve etched the secrets to the universe in the plaster.

How did they always seem to dance around their own words, for millennia – managing to discuss something without really saying it? Six millennia, sixty centuries, six thousand years he’d wondered what it would be like, to be honest and open with Aziraphale, to tell him he loved him and to hold him close. But he’d done that first part, and Aziraphale didn’t want the second part, it seemed. They still didn’t properly talk about it, somehow.

Come to think of it, they hadn’t even clarified what they meant. He had always known Aziraphale loved him, and likewise, obviously. But Crowley meant it in a romantic way – maybe Aziraphale meant it platonically, as a friend. They hadn’t said. Because, as Crowley was noting with increasing annoyance, even having Heaven and Hell out of the way still made them shit communicators.

He sat up in bed and grabbed his phone, calling the angel with a sudden vengeance. He wanted to clarify this now or he’d never fall asleep. And Aziraphale didn’t sleep, so it being two at night was fine.

" _Hello? Crowley?”_ he answered after a couple rings.

“Yeah.”

_Why are you calling? Is something wrong?”_

“No. I just wanted to. Uh.” Dammit. Why did he still feel so awkward saying this? They’d already told each other they loved each other! This shouldn’t be weird! “Wanted to ask you something.”

_"Alright, go ahead.”_

“Do you…that is. Er. In what…way…do you love me?”

He could almost feel Aziraphale’s smile through the phone. _“Why, as my closest friend, and my partner in life.”_

Crowley blinked. That honestly didn’t help much, somehow. “Partner in life, as in…”

" _As in, I want to be by your side for eternity. If that’s alright with you.”_

“Uh. Yeah, yeah, suits me.” How did all of this manage to be so unromantic? Was this purposeful on Aziraphale’s part? What were they saying – were they even talking about the same things? These were words he could only have dreamt of, and he had so many times – and they’d all been cast in candlelight, or moonlight, or starlight. And it had never been over the phone.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing everything wrong.

" _Glad to hear it,”_ Aziraphale replied, and he really did sound that way.

Crowley sighed after the conversation ended, flopping himself back on his pillows with a groan. He sent his phone flying somewhere, knowing it wouldn’t dare disappoint him by breaking. If Aziraphale was happy with this, then so was Crowley. He had nothing to complain about. They had basically promised themselves to each other for the rest of time, they’d told each other how they felt. He had everything he’d ever wanted, didn’t he?

_“Is there nothing else you want?”_

That wasn’t true. There were countless things he wanted. He wanted Aziraphale to be safe, he wanted Aziraphale by his side, always. He wanted them to be comfortable together in the way married couples are, floating through their daily lives and entwined in a manner that demanded nothing but the constancy of presence. He wanted to know Aziraphale in a way that let them be together without any excuses.

He wanted to hold the angel’s hand.

He groaned again, running his fingers sharply over his face, almost enough to draw blood. With Hell out of the picture, he didn’t care too much about being demonic anymore, but still. That was just sappy, bleeding-heart crap. He was not a romantic. Of course, not.

 _Lies, lies,_ his head whispered.

No, he was fine.

He didn’t want anything in particular.

Except that he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

On a park bench in St. James, his fingers itched to get closer. On a sofa in the bookshop, he wished the angel wasn’t across the room in his armchair. In restaurants and cafes, he wanted to sit next to him instead of opposite. He wanted to drape his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder, or hold his waist, when onlookers eyed his angel for a bit too long. He wanted the angel to kiss him on the cheek goodnight, and to brazenly turn his head so their lips connected, just to hear Aziraphale pretend he was upset about it.

He closed his eyes. Aziraphale probably _would_ be upset about it, which rather spoiled the fun of that daydream. He’d thought he’d have no need for daydreams once he told Aziraphale his feelings, and yet, they only seemed to multiply.

And he still didn’t talk about it. He kept it to himself. No need to sully the angel, worry the angel. No problems.

What he didn’t account for was that, even if he didn’t have everything he’d wanted – they still knew each other. They knew each other in ways even they could not understand, and so, Crowley’s discomfort did not go unobserved by the attentive eye of his counterpart.

It had only been a week or so since Armageddon’s big bust, and Crowley found himself on the sofa, a full glass in hand. Aziraphale was in his stupid bloody armchair, across the room from him, too far away, sipping thoughtfully and chattering about something Crowley didn’t hear. The demon glared into his glass and blessed himself for being so greedy and irritable. Aziraphale deserved better than a handsy demon who couldn’t stop thinking about _touching him._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and the demon snapped up to attention. He had the tone of one who’d been saying his name multiple times and it took ‘til the third or fourth go before being noticed.

“Yeah, angel?” he said, forcing his face into something neutral, none of his prior brooding and discontent showing through. He forgot belatedly that he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and his eyes betrayed everything, regardless.

“I noticed lately,” Aziraphale began carefully, “that you don’t seem very…happy.”

“I’m happy,” Crowley denied immediately, taking a sip of his drink before putting it down, still nearly full. It burned – the alcohol, the lie.

“You don’t seem it.”

“I’m just a bit tired, is all. Might need to sleep for a week. You know how it is.”

“I do,” Aziraphale agreed patiently, “which is how I know that this” – he gestured at Crowley vaguely – “is not exhaustion. You’re upset about something. Something to do with me.”

Crowley shook his head vehemently, standing to pace. “No, Aziraphale. I’m fine, and you’re fine! I’m not upset. I’m tickety-boo, in fact,” he tacked on, hoping to rouse a laugh from the angel. It didn’t work.

“It’s been since we said we love each other,” Aziraphale said simply, gaze steady.

“I…I don’t…”

“Crowley, just tell me. If this… _relationship_ isn’t what you want, just…” His eyes were vulnerable, shadowed, trying not to ache – and it was Crowley’s fault. “Don’t lie to me.”

Crowley felt a pang deep in his soul. “Never, angel. Never,” he whispered, knowing it wasn’t true, eyebrows drawn taut as he took a deep breath. “I do want this, I do. It’s just that…”

“What is it, Crowley? Please.”

Crowley felt the last thread of his will snap, and the words poured out of him without restraint, fast and full of helplessness. “I want to hold your hand when we’re walking in St. James and pretend to brush against your shoulder by accident. I want to sit next to you on the sofa when we get drunk and talk about stupid things. I want to hug you in dumb little diners and for you to hold my arm like a Victorian gentleman so I can tease you about it. I want to kiss you every blessed moment of the damn day, and wake up next to you in the morning and see you in stupid tartan pajamas, and for our fingers to brush when I make tea for you because you’re so deep in a book you forget the world exists.” He buried his hands in his face where he stood. “I’m so sorry. I am. I just… _want to touch you.”_

Aziraphale had remained stoically quiet throughout this declaration, but at Crowley’s apology, he came back to life all at once. “Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, standing and stepping toward. Crowley’s didn’t see, couldn’t see with his eyes closed and face in his hands, but what he felt was an angel wrapping his arms around his middle and drawing him against his body.

It took him a moment to register it, but when he did, he looked up carefully. His head was pressed against Aziraphale’s cheek, chest-to-chest, thighs and neck and hands and shoulders. Tentatively, he removed his arms from where they were wedged between their bodies and drew them around Aziraphale soft stomach, gently, careful, and slow, as though the moment might break if he held on too tightly.

His blasted, traitorous corporation blinked away the tears that threatened. In the old days, touching was more common; a kiss on the cheek between friends was hardly noteworthy. But as the world became touchier about touch, they, too, withdrew from each other. It was inappropriate all of a sudden, and Crowley had long felt that physical chasm between them. In every way, out of his reach.

It had been centuries.

He held a little tighter.

“It’s okay, dearest,” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was so close. “Please, don’t ever feel ashamed about wanting or needing touch. It’s not a bad thing to want, and I’m sorry I didn’t see. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how badly you wanted this, too.”

Crowley tensed as his brain processed each word individually. “…Too?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale replied gently as he began rubbing a gentle hand across Crowley’s back in circular ministrations. “Perhaps I haven’t felt it so strongly as you, but you know me. Slow on the uptake, as usual. But I want all you said and more, always.”

The last embers of Crowley’s self-control withered and died in a thin sliver of smoke, and he pulled away just enough to capture the angel’s lips in a desperate kiss, tears streaming down his twisted face as determination and hope scraped together and found a will to believe in him, grasping at faith like a drowning man and a rope.

Aziraphale made a slight sound of surprise, taking only a moment before responding in pressure, hands drifting to Crowley’s face to thumb at the hot tears that continued in fervor. Crowley held tight at the angel’s waist, leaning over Aziraphale in a dip. Aziraphale’s arms splayed over Crowley’s shoulders then to weakly grasp at his neck, silently demonstrating his faith that Crowley’s would hold him and keep him safe.

They broke away in unspoken, simultaneous agreement, huffing for breath and staring at each other. Crowley suddenly realized their position and leaned backward to pull the angel up – a little too quickly, for Aziraphale stumbled into Crowley and the demon braced against a bookshelf to keep them upright. He cracked a smirk at the angel’s embarrassed expression, and they burst out into laughter.

“We’re a couple of old sillies, aren’t we?” Aziraphale giggled tenderly, absently caressing the back of Crowley’s hair.

“Please don’t ever call me that again,” Crowley said with a roll of the eyes, too fond to bite. “Call it what it is: me being a fucking idiot.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Don’t you dare speak of my lover that way,” he admonished, laughing heartily when he saw Crowley’s cheeks light aflame at the term. He cupped the demon’s face, drying the last remaining tears as Crowley felt the overwhelming adrenaline wane enough to grapple for some semblance of control over his faculties. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that you couldn’t tell me of your wants,” the angel whispered, remorseful but earnest. “I should have realized much sooner.”

Crowley shook his head as much as he could without breaking the contact. “Don’t apologize. I should’ve just said…I just…I didn’t think you’d want this like I did. Do.” He suddenly had a thought and scrutinized Aziraphale’s expression. “Do you want this, really? Are you just doing this because it’s what I want?”

“I told you,” Aziraphale said sweetly, “I do want this, so very much. I simply have no idea what I’m doing. You’d think all those romance novels would’ve given me a clue…”

Crowley cracked a grin at that, relieved. “I think we’re equally inexperienced there, angel. We’ll make it up as we go.” He leaned forward until their foreheads were pressed together and closed his eyes. “At your pace, okay? Whatever you want, I’ll give to you.”

Aziraphale tsked him gently. “You always do, don’t you, love? Let me take care of you for once.” And with that, he pulled Crowley into their second kiss.

If Crowley’d had the time to wonder if the kisses following the first would be any less electrifying, he might’ve seen in this moment that such fears were unfounded. There was less desperation, instead softened into the gentle caress of lips, the tender pulse of pressed cheeks, the tip of the angel’s nose grazing the edge of the demon’s. It was warm and Crowley’s very soul – if he had one – shivered.

He did not expect Aziraphale’s tongue against his bottom lip but was more than pleased to deepen the kiss to the taste of lavender tea and honey, the plush outline of mouths that didn’t know how to explore but gave it their best go. Teeth clacked ungracefully and Aziraphale twice nearly bit Crowley’s tongue off, and it was as perfect as could be.

Neither knew how much time passed; surely, the passage of the sun in relation to the Earth did not affect them at all as they mapped out the other, pressed against a bookshelf in the fading dusk.

The room was awash in starlight when they broke apart and remembered that breathing was a thing they used to do, once upon a time, before they’d given it up for more important tasks like snogging the living daylights out of each other. Aziraphale’s hair was cast in a white light from the moon behind him, making him glow every bit like the angel he was, his scarlet face and tender eyes the definition of every love song Crowley had ever heard. Every sonnet, every poem, every romantic tale that existed, had surely been an ode to his angel, his partner, his lover, his friend.

Crowley was a romantic, then. So be it.

The angel broke out into a grin quite suddenly, seeming almost shy as he spoke, as though he hadn’t just had his tongue down Crowley’s throat for the past century or so. “That was rather magnificent,” he breathed. “I see what those novels are on about, now.”

Crowley meant to smirk but ended up with a genuine smile that he couldn’t suppress and didn’t try hard to. He gave a chaste peck to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Should’ve known you’d like that, you hedonist. You kiss like you eat, you know.”

“Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally, eyes twinkling. “I like to savor my favorite sensations. Hardly a sin to enjoy things.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Not a bit. I can’t even claim to tempt you when you’re the one who’s been tempting me for millennia.”

“Oh, dear.” The angel blushed and Crowley seared the image of his moonlit love, tinted pink. He wanted it printed on ten thousand postcards, saved as his phone lock screen, imprinted into his eyelids. Burned into his retinas like a solar flare of divine beauty.

“My gorgeous angel,” he murmured reverently, tucking a stray white curl behind Aziraphale’s ear.

“Yours,” he replied warmly, leaning a cheek against Crowley’s palm. After a beat, he added, “I believe you said something about waking up beside me, dearest?”

Where he may have stammered in embarrassment before, Crowley felt himself shockingly rich in confidence. The sensation of safety was ubiquitous, like he couldn’t mess this up if he tried _._ “I wasn’t _completely_ lying when I was tired, earlier. You…you do have a bed, don’t you?”

“Ah, well, yes…”

“It’s covered in books, isn’t it?”

He snapped his fingers. “Of course not.”

Crowley laughed. “Lead the way, my angel.”

Aziraphale gave him one last loving look at the endearment before drawing his hands down Crowley’s arms and seizing at palms. Together they found the bedroom, cast in the mellow luminescence of the lights on the London streets, books suspiciously stacked against one wall. The bed’s comforter betrayed the sharp indents caused only by small, rectangular objects sitting in fabric for years. Crowley decided not to say anything.

Just as he’d speculated, Aziraphale wore tartan pajamas. However, when Crowley’s snapped his black silk nightwear into existence, Aziraphale gave him an appraising look.

“What?” He couldn’t help but tease a little, wiggling his hips. “Like what you see?”

“Oh, stop, you ridiculous serpent,” he replied with a roll of the eyes. “Just a small change is needed.” He snapped and Crowley looked down to see a _blessed tartan lining_ on the sleeve’s hems and his collar.

“Aziraphale. Please,” he groaned. “I am not wearing tartan if it _kills me_.”

The bastard smirked at him – _smirked at him!_ – and crossed his arms. “That’s my personal tartan, you know.”

Crowley felt a lurch in the base of his stomach. Someone’s personal tartan was, in essence, a pattern designed solely for the use of the family. An old invented Scottish tradition from the mid-nineteenth century to symbolize clan affiliation. Suddenly, a thermos and bike rack straps and the collar of his suit after the body swap were cast in a new light, and he brushed a finger over his new tartan hem with astonishment.

_Aziraphale had been calling him his family for decades._

“Ah,” he stammered weakly. “I-I suppose I’ll survive it, then.”

Aziraphale couldn’t seem to help but glow in return, a smile so wide it surely would crack his face open. “There’s a dear,” he said, as though to a child or misbehaving cocker spaniel. “Now, into the bed with you.”

Crowley obeyed swiftly and was gratified with watching Aziraphale settled down beside him, slow in movement, but graceful. They faced each other under the covers a moment before Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in question.

Crowley shimmed forward and placed an arm around Aziraphale’s round center. It was very awkward. “This okay?” he asked.

Aziraphale huffed softly. “We can do better than this.” He shifted to lay on his back, pulling Crowley until the demon lay half on top of him. Their legs naturally entwined, and Crowley found his head pillowed into the expansive softness of Aziraphale’s chest, blinking up at him with what can only be called Love.

“Yeah, this is better,” he admitted feebly, unable to shake the awe that he was allowed to have this.

“I thought it might be.”

“Will you sleep? I know you don’t, usually.”

“I don’t, true. But I’ve never had anyone to sleep with before, so I’ll certainly give it a try. Now, hush and rest, my love.”

What was there to do but oblige?

Crowley did not dream that night. The concept of nightmares had dissolved entirely, leaving not even an acrid scorch in his brain. Pleasant dreams were chased away, too, as being entirely unable to withstand comparison to reality. So, the demon slept in the arms of his angel, mind quiet but for the hum of contentment.

When he woke up, Aziraphale was still there, in outrageous tartan pajamas and cradling the demon’s head like it was something precious. “Good morning, my dearest,” the angel said softly, the morning dawn too fragile to speak with greater volume.

“G’morning,” the demon replied huskily, blinking awake. It took a moment for his disbelieving brain to register that he was, in fact, waking up, rather than falling asleep into a dream that looked a lot like reality. But no, Aziraphale was there, looking at him, loving him, and his face was inches away.

Crowley knew of a rather wonderful way to greet the new day and implemented it immediately, having found the distance between their mouths to be quite unnecessary. Aziraphale’s lips offered no complaint.


End file.
